


It’s not that we’re scared, it’s just that it’s delicate.

by ttoibrainrot



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Choking, Complicated Relationships, Fluff, Gratuitous Smut, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, These two can't stop bickering ever, Unresolved Emotional Tension, because why the fuck not, well actually some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttoibrainrot/pseuds/ttoibrainrot
Summary: “Why did you call?” Ollie asked. Malcolm didn’t respond, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. He hoped that if he led still enough, Ollie would assume he was already asleep. It didn’t work. “Malcolm, I know you’re awake.”Malcolm groaned, still refusing to open his eyes. “Christ, can’t you just bask in the fucking afterglow for ten fucking seconds?”“It’s been forty-five minutes so...no,” Ollie said, pedantic as ever. The bed creaked as he sat up, pulling the blankets up to cover his bare chest. “Why did you call?”“Why did you pick up?”[title from 'Delicate' by Damien Rice]
Relationships: Ollie Reeder/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	It’s not that we’re scared, it’s just that it’s delicate.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Ollie/Malcolm fic (and actually the first fic that I've published in a really long time), so please go gentle on me! This is set in some nebulous post-series 2 era, except in this universe, Ollie never dated Emma because I have a blatant disregard for canon. Anyway- enjoy!

“Why did you call?” Ollie asked. Malcolm didn’t respond, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. He hoped that if he led still enough, Ollie would assume he was already asleep. It didn’t work. “Malcolm, I know you’re awake.” 

Malcolm groaned, still refusing to open his eyes. “Christ, can’t you just bask in the fucking afterglow for ten fucking seconds?” 

“It’s been forty-five minutes so...no,” Ollie said, pedantic as ever. The bed creaked as he sat up, pulling the blankets up to cover his bare chest. “Why did you call?” 

“Why did you pick up?”

Ollie didn’t have an answer to that. The two of them fell silent, listening to the rain drumming on the roof of Malcolm’s Central London townhouse. It was late, past midnight, and the only light in the room came from the watery glow of the streetlamps outside. Malcolm rolled over and tried to doze off again, but it was no use—sleep often evaded him, and Ollie sitting tensely on the other side of his bed didn’t help matters. He sighed and reluctantly peeled his eyes open, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. 

“I called,” he started, rubbing his hands over his tired face and frowning at the new wrinkles he felt on his forehead. “Because it’s been a long and fucking tedious week, and I thought—”

He tailed off. What had he thought? He’d left Number 10 in a thunderous mood, energy fizzing below his skin in a way that made it impossible for him to unwind. The ride home had only riled him up more, cooped up in the back of a Hackney carriage as the cabbie took the most convoluted and traffic-heavy route across the city. Arriving back at his house, soulless and empty in the dark winter evening, had been the final straw—he’d dug his BlackBerry out of his coat pocket and dialled Ollie’s number before even taking his shoes off. The truth was, he hadn’t thought, not really. This _thing_ of theirs (Malcolm didn’t quite know what to call it – ‘arrangement’ sounded too transactional, but it wasn’t quite ‘relationship’, either) had been going on for months, and by now, it was a reflex, the only logical response to the creeping loneliness that Malcolm couldn’t escape. When he found himself running, it was always to Ollie. There had been no thought involved, not at all. 

“You thought what?” Ollie prompted, his voice quivering a little. Was it cold? Malcolm couldn’t tell—these Englishmen were as nesh as they come. 

“I thought it would be a wee bit of fun, okay?” he snapped, immediately regretting his harsh tone. “Didn’t realise it would turn into an episode of The Weakest fucking Link.” 

Silence, again. Malcolm hated silence. He always needed something, anything to drown out the smoke alarms in his brain— music, the news, one of the many self-help tapes Sam had gifted him over the years. Even Ollie’s daft questions were better than the quiet. 

He acquiesced. “Look, Ollie, I—”

“Do you want me to leave?” Ollie interrupted, his voice no louder than a whisper. Another beat of silence, then, “Because I—uhm, I really don’t mind, it’s not too late, I’m sure I could get a cab—”

Malcolm leaned over and cupped the back of Ollie’s neck with his hand, cutting off his rambling with a kiss. Ollie immediately softened, pawing at Malcolm’s side and whining quietly into his mouth. This was why he’d called—the kisses, the gentle touches, the little noises that Malcolm was damn near addicted to. He knows that it’s a quick fix, a fleeting high, but he couldn’t deny that _this_ was what make the chaos go away. It kept his head from flying off to where the darkness lives, anchored to the bed as Ollie moved to straddle him, deepening their kiss. He grabbed Ollie’s waist and pulled him closer, grinning as he felt Ollie’s erection press against his stomach. 

Malcolm broke the kiss momentarily, but he didn’t go far—he rested his forehead against Ollie’s, and they were so close together that their noses touched. The closeness was startlingly intense, so much so that Malcolm had to take a deep breath to steady himself before speaking. 

“Stay,” he asked, then cringed at just how desperate he sounded. He backtracked, adding; “If you’re up for round two, that is.” 

Ollie giggled, his mouth grazing Malcolm’s ear as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his jaw. He leaned in close and purred, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Their lips met again, messy and frantic, Ollie snaking his hands up into Malcolm’s hair and tugging on the greying curls gently. Malcolm’s fingertips dug into Ollie’s bony hips, certain that it would leave bruises— _good_. There was a part of Malcolm—a guilty, perverse part that he rarely liked to entertain—that enjoyed seeing his lover littered with purple marks from his mouth and hands the following morning. Ollie was all too willing to oblige, breaking the kiss to tip his head back and bare his long, pale throat. Malcolm surged forward, sucking love bites into the newly exposed skin as Ollie writhed above him. He keened, practically begging to be marked up, to be made a mess of, to be _claimed_. The thought alone made Malcolm’s head spin. 

“Malcolm,” Ollie panted, sounding deliciously out-of-breath. “Malc.” 

He detached his lips from Ollie’s neck and sat back, staring up at his lover reverently. It was rare that Malcolm felt himself get emotionally invested in his hook-ups, but there was something about Ollie—God knows what, but it was something—that had broken down his defences, made him vulnerable. The worst part of it was that he wasn’t even _scared_. He knew it would end badly; he was free-falling, and the thought alone should have terrified him. But then he looked up at Ollie, his skin flushed pink and his eyelashes fluttering, and there was no way he could be afraid.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, drawing soothing circles on Ollie’s hips with his fingertips. 

Ollie smiled. “You’re doing that face again.” 

“What face?” 

“Your sex face,” Ollie said smugly. He traced Malcolm’s brow with the thumb of his left hand inquisitively, and Malcolm—like the sappy twat he was— _let_ him. The touch healed him, soothing his temper and making him feel whole, in some strange way. He tried his best not to let it show, all too aware that he was failing spectacularly. 

“It’s sort of… relaxed. And dopey,” Ollie continued, his cold hands cupping Malcolm’s cheeks. 

“Who the fuck are you calling dopey?” Malcolm quipped, but there was no malice in his words. He felt dopey, his heart hammering against his ribcage in the best way possible as Ollie’s thumb softly petted his cheek. 

“No one,” Ollie insisted, still touching Malcolm’s face with an endearing curiosity that made him melt. “You know what I mean.” 

“I can stop doing it if you want,” Malcolm said nonchalantly, turning his head to kiss Ollie’s palm tenderly. 

Ollie frowned. “What?” 

“My so-called fucking ‘sex face’.” 

“Don’t you _dare_.” 

This kiss was different; it’s slower and languid, but filled with promise. Malcolm fumbled blindly for his bedside table, managing to retrieve the half-used bottle of lube from earlier. He slicked two fingers up and reached behind Ollie, revelling in the small gasp his lover gave when he plunged the slippery digits inside him. He was still loose—it had been little over an hour since the first round, and Malcolm had prepped him meticulously. Still, Ollie whined when he felt Malcolm’s knuckles against his hole, pushing back greedily onto his lover’s long, nimble fingers. 

Malcolm smiled into the warm skin where Ollie’s neck met his shoulder. “Needy fucking bitch.”

“Bloody hell, do y— oh God,” Ollie said, his words petering out into a breathless moan. “Do you ever put a lid on it?” 

“No,” Malcolm chuckled, curling his fingers a little to brush against Ollie’s prostate and make him whine. “Never.”

He caught his breath just enough to say, “Bastard.” 

“You love it.” 

“I’d love it more if you’d fucking hurry up.” 

Malcolm slipped a third finger in, smirking as Ollie’s hips bucked involuntarily. “Hurry up like that?” 

This time, there was no snarky response— Ollie didn’t have the presence of mind for any more sarcasm. His head slumped forward to rest on Malcolm’s shoulder and he whimpered, loud and desperate, as Malcolm stretched him open. It was good, so good, but after a while it just wasn’t enough. He needed more. 

“Fuck—more,” Ollie pleaded, blushing bright red from a combination of pleasure and embarrassment. Malcolm loved to hear him beg for it, and Ollie was eager to indulge him. The humiliation somehow made it even better. “Please, Malc, I need...” 

“You need what, darling?” growled Malcolm, his voice low and gravelly in Ollie’s ear. The words set Ollie’s brain on fire and he moaned, burying his face in Malcolm’s neck. 

He tried to speak again, but faltered. He rolled his hips, clenching around those magic fingers while simultaneously grinding his naked cock against Malcolm’s thigh. “Please...” 

“C’mon, sweetheart, ask me nicely,” Malcolm teased, gripping Ollie’s thigh tightly with his free hand to stop him from moving. “Look at you... speechless. That first from Cambridge is worth fuck all now, isn’t it?” 

“Piss off,” Ollie said, his words completely undermined by the high-pitched whine that accompanied them. “Just get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

“Malcolm, you _know_ what—”

Malcolm was enjoying this far too much. “Of course I fucking know. I just want to hear you say it.”

Ollie wanted to wipe the shit-eating grin off his stupid, sexy face. He took a shaky breath and found his voice again. “Fucking me. Obviously.” 

Despite all his stalling, Malcolm didn’t need to be asked twice. He withdrew his fingers, and Ollie groaned at the sudden loss. But he wasn’t empty for long— Malcolm grabbed a condom off the bedside table and rolled it down his shaft, slicking himself up quickly before wiping the excess lube on the pillow. 

“Gross,” Ollie commented, rolling his eyes. 

Malcolm scoffed. “They’ll need washing tomorrow anyway.” 

“Ah yes, Malcolm Tucker, domestic goddess and ultimate homemaker— _oh Jesus fucking Christ_.”

Ollie felt the head of Malcolm’s cock press into him, hot and insistent at his entrance. He knelt up and held himself steady, holding onto his lover’s shoulders as Malcolm guided himself inside, one hand still gripping Ollie’s hip firmly. Malcolm tried to stay calm, resisting the urge to thrust upwards into Ollie’s tight heat. When he finally bottomed out, the two of them were left gasping for breath, panting into each other’s mouths as they kissed. They were still for a few seconds, Malcolm careful to let Ollie’s body adjust to the intrusion before taking it any further.

“You alright?” he murmured after a long moment, stroking his hands up Ollie’s sides before circling his waist. “Ollie?”

Ollie’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was breathing heavily, a rosy blush spreading down to his chest. Malcolm didn’t push him, sitting perfectly still as Ollie wiggled his hips experimentally. One of his hands slipped from Malcolm’s shoulders and came to rest on his own stomach, just below his naval, as he tentatively lifted himself up before sinking back down. Malcolm’s brain short-circuited, the implication too much for him to handle.

“Ollie,” he said again, “Please.”

Silence, then a small, winded laugh. Ollie opened his eyes and stared into Malcolm’s, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Who’s needy now?”

Malcolm lunged forward, capturing Ollie’s lips in a filthy kiss. In that instant, it felt as if they were the only two people left on Earth; all Malcolm could comprehend was Ollie’s tongue in his mouth, Ollie’s hand squeezing his shoulder, Ollie’s body engulfing him entirely. For a split second, there was a moment of perfect peace, and Malcolm prayed that he would never have to leave this bed ever again.

Then Ollie _moved_.

Gingerly, at first—he pushed himself up on trembling thighs, rolling his hips as he sank back down with a beautiful groan. After a few tries, he found a rhythm, bouncing on Malcolm’s cock with earnest. Each movement punched breathless noises from him, little _ah-ah-ah_ sounds that echoed off the walls. In the back of his mind, Ollie worried what the neighbours might think—the house was terraced, and the walls were surprisingly thin— but he didn’t have the wherewithal to give it much thought. Any last concerns he had were quashed when Malcolm thrust upwards, hitting his prostate.

“Oh,” he whimpered loudly, his body going slack in Malcolm’s lap. “ _Jesus_.”

“Not quite,” said Malcolm, “But close.”

Ollie groaned, partly from the sex, but mostly from the bad pun. “You make that joke every time, Malcolm. Think of some new material.” 

Malcolm laughed breathlessly. “This isn’t _Live at the_ fucking _Apollo,_ sweetheart—”

“Shut up, just—shut up,” Ollie interrupted, pressing an insistent kiss to his lover’s mouth to drive his point home. He wrapped his arms around Malcolm’s shoulders and held on tightly. “Just fuck me, okay?”

Malcolm grinned before pulling Ollie closer, rolling them over until he was on top. Reaching to the right, he grabbed a spare pillow and shoved it under Ollie’s hips, then leant in close to whisper in his ear; “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

Ollie keened, arching his back. He loved it when Malcolm got like this—dominant, demanding, just a little bit terrifying. The new angle set his skin alight with pleasure as Malcolm thrust back in, harder and faster than before. It was overwhelming; every thrust left him gasping for air, and he bit his lip to try and keep his wanton noises in. Malcolm noticed this immediately, ducking down to kiss him gently before murmuring, “Darling, you don’t have to be quiet. Let me hear you.” 

It took every ounce of self-control in Ollie’s body to stop himself from screaming at those words. Malcolm set a punishing pace, pressing his full weight behind every thrust and murmuring an endless string of dirty talk into Ollie’s ear. He holds Malcolm close, scraping his nails down the other man’s back as he begged him _more, harder, faster._ Malcolm pulled back slightly to study Ollie’s face. It’s contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut and cheeks bright crimson, and he’s so beautifully debauched that it made Malcolm’s heart soar.

He hoisted Ollie’s leg further up his hip and leaned forward, pressing into him deeper in a way that made his lover moan loudly. Planting a kiss on Ollie’s sweaty forehead, he said, “You’re fucking gorgeous, sweetheart.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” was all that Ollie could manage as a response, and Malcolm can tell he’s getting close. He tilted is head back, locking eyes with Malcolm and blinking at him with those big, dark eyes. It’s a wordless invitation, confirmed by the way he reacted when Malcolm slowly wrapped a hand around his throat. “Please.”

Malcolm frowned. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, but Malcolm was always cautious, too afraid of hurting Ollie to fully give in to his instincts. “Are you sure?”

“Choke me,” Ollie said—no qualms, no hesitation, not even a hint of shame. Malcolm tightened his grip slightly, squeezing the sides of his neck while taking care not to press too heavily on the front, and he’s gratified by the way Ollie’s breath hitched. “Harder, Malcolm. I’m not made of glass.”

Malcolm obliged him, squeezing Ollie’s neck harder as he continued to thrust into him, deep and fast. What struck Ollie most was the contrast—the tight grip on his throat juxtaposed with the soft words of encouragement in his ear, the sweet voice that called him _beautiful_. He was so close to the edge, sliding a hand between their bodies to stroke his own cock in time with Malcolm’s movements. It didn’t take long until he came with a loud, unabashed moan, all over his own hand and stomach. Malcolm let go of his throat and it made him see stars. For a split second, he felt buoyant, as if the weight of Malcolm on top of him was the only thing stopping him from floating off into space. He clung on tighter, whimpering through the aftershocks as Malcolm follows suit, coming with a low groan.

Neither of them moved for a moment, both trying to catch their breath. Malcolm pressed soft kisses to Ollie’s lips, his cheeks, his jaw, smiling against his flushed skin. It must’ve tickled, because after a second, he heard Ollie’s giddy, fucked-out laugh. It’s infectious, and before he knew it, Malcolm was giggling too, so overwhelmingly _happy_ that he couldn’t hold it in.

“ _That_ ,” he chuckled, his forehead pressed to Ollie’s, “Was why I called.”

Ollie laughed again, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “I thought as much.”

Malcolm slipped out of him and reluctantly pulled away, ignoring Ollie’s whines of protest as he disappeared into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. He returned with a warm flannel, which he used to wipe the drying cum off Ollie’s stomach.

“Thank you,” Ollie said sleepily as he felt the wet cloth touch his skin. He was exhausted and his body ached, but in the best way possible. A warm sensation bloomed in his chest at Malcolm’s tenderness. This was the side of him that was seldom seen, least of all by anyone in Westminster— sweet, caring, _gentle_.

When Malcolm climbed into bed, Ollie wrapped himself around him like an octopus, using his long limbs to his advantage. He wanted to be as close to him as possible, chest-to-chest, their noses touching, legs intertwined below the duvet. Malcolm brushed the stray curls off Ollie’s forehead, his eyes searching his lover’s face intently. “You alright?”

“‘Course I am,” mumbled Ollie, his eyes fluttering shut. Malcolm admired the way the sparse light reflected on his face, all sharp angles and delicate curves. “Bit tired.”

“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” he husked, “I’ve got you.”

It didn’t take long for Ollie to doze off, his body tangled up in Malcolm’s as he slumbered. The peaceful silence betrayed the fact that it was still raining outside; raindrops tapped against the panes of the window, creating little rivulets as they rolled down the glass. Malcolm shut his eyes, tried to let sleep take him—God knows he was tired enough—but there’s something keeping him awake, gnawing in the back of his mind. So, once he was sure Ollie was properly asleep, he whispered into the darkness: “I love you.”

Ollie hadn’t heard it. Malcolm wasn’t brave enough to tell him properly, and he doubted he ever would be. But the mere act of saying it, accepting it as truth, was enough for now. He let himself drift off, holding the man he loved in his arms, safe in the knowledge that this, _this_ , was why he called.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @/ ttoibrainrot :)


End file.
